Ever more
by KittiMarlowe
Summary: Love is quite the mysterious one. Here's to two people who found it. AragornLegolas. Slash. Look at homepage on profile for review responses.
1. Chapter 1

1

Prologue: an understanding

Of the sea and elves.

The two are not so different; so perpetual and shifting, winks of sun-flung spangles thrown and desiccated as they fall—from rays, broad and benign to sharper splinters, un- held as they are too defiant for the touch of any. The sun upon the sea; that disappears with the great calamity of wave upon sand—and the water, shall never resume the old form again, never look back upon the same ripples of moments before.

And so the currents adjust to suit the wind, rocks of cliffs—these cliffs, seen as abrupt, mighty, even cruel: but at the advent of a new age; most undoubtedly the closure of yesterday—the cliffs fade and succumb to the greatest cruelty of all.

Whilst the sea is the same as ever, though changed thousand fold, again and again, only to encroach on the same design, of waves with the mellifluous scatter of singsong—cruel sun, still burning, still blazing in such fury that defies myth and science alike.

Such is the way of the sea, not unlike the elves.

You do not understand you say—such is the way of men I suppose, too ephemeral to truly live and understand that most mighty cruelty; the ravaging of the oceans until all that is left is the desert, followed by the rape of the sands, until all that is left is the void.

And what is left standing by that void but the undying, standing, standing by its side to rule it: no one. Not one soul: not even the elves.


	2. Chapter 2

2

Prologue: once ever

_Once ever, in a time that the woods will perhaps rustle with witness of to the future, Imladris was less quiet, temporary haven to Isildur's heir, one whom I personally prefer to refer to as Elendil's, for he bears most resemblance to the legend, rather than the bane._

_On a short retreat from the darkness clinging to the murky depths of what is more heartache than true evil, I was acquainted with the child; I hesitate to call him that, I doubt he was ever as foolish as to be called child—just the ephemeral innocence that left him too soon. _

_But none of that: I always say—to myself, no one else can know of this—that he did not change ultimately, nor did I. Mayhap just the realization that fate can throw at you with such heart-stopping accuracy, had finally hit home. _

_

* * *

_

The room was airy, the wind was carefree, music untied by accompaniment, lacking the suffocated knots of notes that oft collided with summer's muggy panes as felt by the men of Laketown.

He leaned over the cradle

"Stop acting like that's so unusual? Come on, Legolas, do try to pick him up—"

"He doesn't bite, he certainly gets enough to eat from the looks of it."

The twins chortled, he marveled at how alike they looked, from birth they had been identical, and had never veered from that path since. They laughed easily, he felt… slight envy, only it would be wrong to want their lots rather than his own, and behind the merry façade, there was ever-lingering grief.

_Forget not, Lady Celebrian's passing. _Reproachful.

He arched a brow, " I highly doubt your testament. And when I do, I'm often proved correct."

"Trust us, we've had experience."

"Exactly why I do not, you two; always so deceptive."

They looked wounded and claimed to be as well, merry peals of laughter, again. How uncontainable it was, floating out the windows to settle on the gently quivering foliage, permeate the woodsy scent, with light echoes skittering across the earth.

And the babe blinked with uncertainty and sleep still reluctantly clinging.

⥸ting like that's so unusual!" the fair- haired elf assumed an exprA

Elladan appeared to shrink to the doorframe, "it might be an appropriate moment to call Lady Gilraen, to soothe the child.

"And leave us here?" The tone was accusatory, apparently the little bundle was more havoc than the twins had claimed.

Legolas resumed his position, hands tentatively rocking the cradle, "You cannot possibly _both _abandon me here. I lack experience in this field."

The object of all this indecision yawned, blinked once, twice, and stared unfailingly into Legolas's eternal blue.

* * *

_--I think that is when I first saw the sky for what it was._

_--Perchance it was the sea._

_--Do not think of that. Do not grieve ahead of time._

* * *

"He likes you!" Elrohir returned to the cradle's side, placing a slender finger on Estel's cheek and trailed it gently following its childish curve, still new-furled to this earth. 

"Stop acting like that's so unusual!" the fair- haired elf assumed an expression of great asperity.

"Oh, but on the contrary…" Elladan trailed off slyly.

"Now would you two juveniles please excuse me while I wash all this grime off me." Legolas swept out of the room, "Absolutely disgraceful. Preventing a guest from attending to his personal hygiene."

"Juveniles! I like that. We are senior to you by _far_!"

The fair-haired elf smirked slightly; was that Elladan or Elrohir? They sounded far too alike, perhaps they should wear cowbells, one high, and the other of a lower pitch… Interesting, he mused, walking down the corridor to his customary guest quarters.

* * *

_Such a small thing,_ he marveled, children, young innocents were rare amongst the Eldar in this day and age, rarer still in mirkwood, where any striplings soon gained the toughened bark of knowing; so that less sap might be lost, tried and tempered heartwood that was feeling but still weathered by the incessant storm raging. 

Once a while the storm seemed to diminish into a sullen drizzle, barely enough to allow the sunlight to pervade the dense mesh of upgrowth: ivy, weed, stifling the trees, even the greatest boughs were dimmed by vines choking their roots. Then the ravage of an endless vertical torrent would continue.

Legolas began to see his musings in puddles of memory as colour joined the bitter threnody resounding in him. He shelved them; _no bitterness for greenwood, 'tis not right._

Right; every wood-elf knew innately what 'Right' was, they were part of it, part its breathing and shafts of tremulous sunshine—tenacious reminder of all they fought for.

_Greenwood. She is worth it._

But before the blood and sweat feeding their forest overtook him he shelved those thoughts, and rocked the cradle, swaying slightly it seemed to bring the babe,_ Estel_, he corrected himself, an immeasurable comfort. It was an oddly sympathetic, empathetic motion, as though his own weariness had been pacified and hushed, or rather, healed, with Estel's slumber.

_He is lucky_, was the fair-hair being's final verdict,_ and worthy, like everything else we fight for…the future, the Innocent._

On a lighter note he surveyed the calm bundle, lightly traced under the blanket, with a hint of amusement, "Surely I never slept this much at your age." He extended a creamy hand to the child, and stroked his head softly, he was a little apprehensive, only having encountered a few creatures whom he habitually stroked, namely his cat, a childhood 'friend' and all the other horses he'd had the honour of riding. Oh, and perhaps the trees too.

There were hardly any young ones left, and those he seldom saw, if at all. It was a brave, _or foolhardy_, person who would deliver children to this world under this darkling sky.

He did not hear footsteps padding along the corridor, nor the sweep of robes, a regal kind of sound as he classified it, as another entered the nursery.

Elrond leaned against the doorframe, unimposing as a lord, to serve—his ambition, always and forever. He had played the silent observer on more than one occasion, another was inviting him to stand by and ponder, cast a little insight on the image of a child and the latest being whose affections he had so easily secured with his constant sleeping and yawning, and, he considered the role of narrator, to himself and his memory.


	3. Chapter 3

3

The sky was bright; so bright there seemed to be no celestial ceiling, it was a day in which things seemed and felt truly free without boundaries set by the darkness constantly encroaching on the forest—this day was perhaps a remnant of a better age.

It was a day on which Legolas fancied he might be returning to a resurrected memory; he was journeying to Imladris for the first time in fifteen years. Things had changed since then; yet they had not, all was flux; there was constancy.

The woodwinds rustled leaves tender and inquisitive in spring's early light—the sun was more balmy than mighty and the downpour of light transmuted the grasses and moss underfoot from their usual chary green to a golden splendour.

He was only partially aware of the other riders traveling with him; most of his senses were given to whispers of the earth. It was a quiet ride if one counted conversation as necessary, but to the elves, wood-elves to be specific, the trees swelled around them with immortal secrets—mortals did not understand.

He wondered at the day, that the sun was still bright—Mirkwood favoured night more than day, this bias was obvious in the dark's lengthy reigns—and then again he did not, Imladris had a placid tranquility of the untouched.

A bluejay dipped past them in a parabola, towards their destination, some subtle direction as pointed out the white tower beyond, nestled in the valley it remained as it had always been.

It was a marvel the shimmering walls still stood; he was familiar enough with Elladan and Elrohir's rather questionable activities to reckon so. He was certain they would in good time become dignified as their father was, however, that time had not arrived yet and probably would not for a while, _well, they do have forever for growing up_. The thought was accompanied by a wry smile, _hypocrisy_; he knew himself far too well—he was like them, _of course I am less audacious._

Beauty shone ahead of them; the greatest beauty was far away, seeking respite in Lothlorien's intrinsic charm; but it was still beautiful, still embodied many of the things elves meant. Imladris.

* * *

Estel was exuded quiet and disquiet at turns; he was in the midst of a tricky mire of years: adolescents, and therefore was often excused for little misdemeanors. Such was the nature of adolescence, transition in which flaws were often magnified, missteps taken as malicious advances and the blessings overlooked entirely.

Fifteen was a delicate age as Lord Elrond found, the temperament it induced fluctuated vastly, violently even; a difficult age, all in all.

He was certain it was only temporary and would wait as patiently as he could. After all, he was an elf. He had forever. Until then, it was bearable, more that bearable, Estel had been raised amongst elves, their grace had not been for naught. Estel was an affable, caring child—for the most part.

Presently, he stood at the landing of the sweeping staircase that opened into the main hall; he was often discomfited by the apparently sudden lengthening of his limbs, as he was now, contemplating the wisdom of attempting a certain mischief, this act was one surrounded by rosy memories, of days with Elladan and Elrohir, that had been years ago, when he was actually more than acquainted with his extremities, which was the reason behind this persistent questioning of the sheer wisdom ( or lack of) in sliding down the curving banister.

Neither of his foster brothers were present, they were busy, as they had claimed the last time he had seen them, with preparations, apparently some old friend from Mirkwood was visiting. And therefore were unavailable at the moment to assist him in a young boy's noble ambitions, namely a crude imitation of flight.

He had only ever tried it with the help of fellow conspirators, he had needed the help as he sailed overhead, uninhibited by fears, the twins were always waiting, the guarantee of their arms, the laughter which was reckoned to casual observers as identical, replicated in perfect synchrony, the arpeggios of falling water

He was uncertain, he might fall, hard and subsequently fall into a month-long pit—bed rest as he recovered from broken bones and other afflictions the body encounters after reality's hardness intercepts its force.

Estel reconsidered his odds: will and verve or gravity?

He made his choice, swinging a lanky leg over the polished mahogany he cast a prayer skyward, and before caution caught up with him, he pushed with the other foot which was still barely touching the ground, he slipped a little, a reckless kick and he wasoff.

Rivendell stood still—painted scenery that rearranged itself in its startlingly static nature.

Lucidity struck as he realized with a certain detached quality, the kind oft paired with some imminent misfortune one dreads, that he his foolhardiness had sold him into committing terrible mistake.

He braced himself. It would come anyway; there was just no running from it.

It would hit him hard.

---

Their welcome at Rivendell was quiet, only the woodwinds reverberating in the trees played accompaniment to the footsteps of their horses.

Moss murmured in their corners shadowed by leaves tangled branches, it was a orderly kind of wilderness, a kind of pastoral discipline that was so deeply woven into the naturalness of rambling undergrowth—Legolas knew its name: stability and hence was born the only kind of guarantee one can have of peace in turbulent times.

In childhood he had fantasized about a fourth elven ring, this one would bear a green stone, not an emerald—far more perceptive than emeralds. It would be as the forest stream and as dark and light as Mirkwood was capable of being, it would have the spirit of the sea in it—compelling and terrible and miraculous as all trees were, the perpetuity of ents, purer than the heart of a rose because it would be as a wildflower—truly alive and intense. The child wanted things to be simpler, wanted his father's path to be less of the mire of shade and malice it was. He had grown up, but the hope would always be there.

Rivendell revived old thoughts and long dormant wishes—he wished again but this time the wish was tempered by age-given wisdom: perhaps he was glad the ring did not exist—it would never fail to rise to expectations.

He leaned forward to brush Merin's nose, sliding off her he loosened the straps to his packs; the other riders busied themselves doing the same as a number of stablehands approached the group.

Merin was content to be led away by a random stable hand as were the other horses. The place was familiar to them as well. Most had made the journey at least once or twice.

The Mirkwood contingent were led to the hall by a resident elf: propriety rather than a need to be shown around. Let it never be said that the Last Homely house was anything less than homely and warm in its comforts, as Elrohir had once mentioned. He was right.

---

Estel vaulted through the air, eyes shut yet wide in terrified anticipation of some morbid end.

The world was not seen as it fled by: he saw crimson, blood-red and was certain he would be seeing more any time soon, all over Elrond's white marble floor—_perhaps the maid will hear my screams and come along to clean it up before it stains, I'd hate to be a burden. And then maybe the twins will cry a little, no wait, they're a bit old for that…at my funeral then and they'll think of me—_

The sentence lacked completion as he rammed into something soft and pliable—perhaps fortune was smiling upon him at last—he had rammed into something breathing, he realized a moment later as the muffled gasp registered. It exhaled; he breathed in; he had not seen anyone wandering around before he'd made that fateful decision; it had an oddly wild scent of rain in the trees—he thought of things he had never before seen in his admittedly short and blessedly saved life—trees; thickly growing, diamonds cloistered in their intertwined twigs; the forest, where shadows were powerful but tremulous, sunlight and shadow wound into continuity beneath the boughs, glades overflowing with mellow light, pools of clearwater—

It gripped his shoulder gently; he raised his head in response, he could have guessed from the unfamiliar redolence, sight confirmed it—it was an elf. Not of Rivendell.

There was the recollection of wildflowers, undefined and untrammeled, that this particular elf evoked; he spoke like the sea, and noticing a more concrete feature Estel thought he detected a Sindarin accent.

Where had he heard that voice before?

"Thank you… oh no! I'm terribly sorry." He blurted out when he realized that apologies were more appropriate at the moment than thanks at the provision of a convenient cushion that had walked right into his path.

The other seemed winded, as most would be after being assailed by flying children of a considerable size.

He took a deep breath and began, "You are welcome, I suppose," he managed to gasp.

---

This was how Elladan and Elrohir found them minutes later as they raced down the corridors: their rather impulsive brother and an old friend were sprawled across the floor, the Mirkwood contingent that had accompanied their prince on the journey were in a state of shock—after all, children of any race, man or elf, were usually found with both feet firmly on the ground as higher powers had intended, flying was solely reserved for birds.

They hurried down the staircase as sobriety demanded just as Legolas steadied Estel as they got up with the help of the other Mirkwood elves.

"So, what happened here?" Elladan directed a question at Estel.

The boy seemed to have shrunk, "I was trying to slide down the banister. I didn't mean to crash into… him like that."

"What an interesting way to welcome guests! We must do it the next time you visit us, Legolas." Elrohir seemed to derive a great deal of pleasure in discomfiting their younger brother.

"Well, interesting indeed; I don't think anything's broken." Legolas replied as he straightened his tunic.

"And who might this be?" the subject of his query was rather obvious. There was only one person Legolas did not recognize, "He is human?" he asked, noticing the rounded ears.

"This is Estel—the last time you came he couldn't even talk. Now he talks far too much."

"Elladan!" the voice was almost distressed.

"Edain certainly do grow fast," Legolas directed this comment at no one in particular, the kind of broad sweeping statement that left conversation without closure and yet finished.

"I suppose your cycles are less meandering."

They went out into the gardens. It was blooming out there.

It bloomed just once a year, then it matured, then it began to mellow, obedient to the familiar cycle of history, reds, goldenrod and boughs heavy with honey and blessings achieved through seed and solitude, then snowflakes would find their way down, flung from the skies to decorate the earth as it became cold and hard.

For now it bloomed.

The garden was blooming. They went out into the gardens.

---

On a certain lazy afternoon; one on which circumstances dictated that Elladan and Elrohir be elsewhere other than with their friend and brother; Estel found himself exploring the various and wings and paths that wound Rivendell into a witty conundrum, many-paths of discovery, with some one, this oddly intimate stranger.

He was like all other elves, he did not seem to deviate from the usual elvish virtues and characteristics, however intuition insisted there was yet much to uncover.

Estel had never met one like him. Had he? He did not remember then.

He hailed from Mirkwood.

This apparition, out of a land far off and forbidden to him by the shadow cast by ignorance.

"What is Mirkwood like?"

The question had been asked in a large room, empty of furnishings, merely the polished wood floors and muslin curtains as they rustled in the wind with mysterious whiteness—Estel could not hear their words. Afternoon light was vague and mild as was its wont in midday spring; delicate as milkweed. No more the poppyhearts of dawn.

Hesitation; how to properly phrase a boughs of shadow and beauty that thrust words, elvish or no, into ineptitude, Legolas thought.

"Mirkwood is as much an illusion as it is tangible, leaves and branch… and, yes, shadows and light."

"How is that possible—illusion and tangibility?"

His tone was contemplative, rare for those still wandering in the restless throes of adolescence.

"Shadow: it is neither."

The curtain billowed—reminiscent of a ship on the high seas, such was the image it would have called to any who had seen the sea, sailed ships. Neither occupants say this.

They saw white muslin blowing and rustling. Blowing and rustling.

Carnations blooming and blowing, Estel thought of the gardens.

"I see, I think so. Maybe."

"I do not think you understand. Not really." The voice bore no rebuke; a little shy of the revelation it had presented the other with, it was soft.

"Could you describe it? I have never been there."

"Can you see this: light and dark on a forest floor; nightingales casting their secrets; boughs twisted—harsh and tender, age and potency?" the voice lulled the still air, leaned in to the wind. "Can you?"

"I—yes. Yes I can."

"This is a fraction of what Mirkwood is. Words are not fit." A smile; a tendril of gold played across his face—pale and cool in the light. "I think you will journey to my land someday."

"I hope so."

"For now we enjoy Rivendell. That is how life should be lived." They leaned from the open windows, "may the minutes never run dry."

Legolas was a strange elf but Estel felt a certain confirmation in his heart—he was a friend.


	4. Chapter 4

4

Memory 

_There was a time in Mirkwood, as there were many times, it was remembered vaguely, not with the weighty salience of finality, but the passing memory of continuity. _

_It was a day hazy with autumn, gentle wines of russet and disorganized poetry beneath the boughs of late bloom, and now hazy also with the years between. He recalled this as it was a day they spent outdoors, sweet marvel of fruit and maturity—Mirkwood was a brighter place then._

_The stream was not as ebullient as it had in new spring, it gurgled, reflection was cast; their ripples showed distortion—this was the way of time._

"_So Little Greenleaf, who do you want to marry when you grow up?" his father's affection had always been evident, affection and pride in his only son; the child fingered the wild flowers, they were lush and full, on the brink of decline, but they shone with the moment, for the moment._

"_I know! I want to marry Naneth." He named that irreplaceable feminine influence in every child's universe; in his eyes, there was no woman fairer._

_Thranduil chuckled, a low sound, dulcet and goldenrod. "Ah, but Little Greenleaf, Naneth is already married to me."_

"_Oh, alright then." Legolas furrowed his brow as he tried to think of another being he was remotely likely to marry._

"_Mirithil will do then." _

"_Mirithil, are you certain?" Thranduil recalled a certain little elfling who had crawled into his arms, recalcitrant and petulant as his nanny had refused to allow him to eat more than three spoonfuls of maple syrup at breakfast, he disagreed with her reasoning that more was too rich for little elflings like him. He reminded Legolas of Mirithil's shortcomings._

"_Well, no. not Mirithil then." He fell silent, absently stroking a dandelion that bobbed and bowed to his ministrations._

"_I know. I'll marry someone from far away. Someone I have no bad memories of." With that decision he snapped the dandelion's stalk and tucked it into his father's hair, "There; that matches with your hair. It is prettier than your crown too."_

_Laughter filled the glade, much like the ripples heard before, then a high squealing joined it as Thranduil scooped his son into his arms and twirled him."_

"_I'm flying!"_

* * *

His hair was amberous and gold, shot with red in the firelight; the Hall of Fire was alight with celebration as Lindir sang, his harp played the accompaniment that buoyed his song.

Elladan and Elrohir swirled amongst the rest of the couples, their dance partners were as exuberant, Lirel was typically sanguine and carefree, Aithilin was usually more reserved, she had blushed when Elladan extended the invitation of a dance, as Estel had noticed.

He watched Legolas who had elected not to dance; his composure seemed unbreakable, Estel wondered at his reasons for coming to Rivendell. He seemed worn, he appreciated solitude, but mostly, he emanated that quietude that Estel could never really touch, never really put into words; he was uncertain of the other, this other who appeared to him as all uncertainty.

He was uncanny; he belonged to shadow, as much as the dark belonged to him. He belonged to day, to the dawn, but his hair flickered as it did now, between dusk and morninglight.

The harp was an otherworldly holiness. Lindir's raising of lyrics born of legend were words arched over the cathedral of history and myth. Mostly myth—Estel could not imagine the multitude upon multitude of years collected in the weir of time gone.

He spoke, "What do you think of Rivendell, Legolas?"

Eyelids fluttered, they hid blue, very blue; his eyes were indigo in the amberish light, clear like an open sky, perhaps the sea.

"Peace, it is like lake, I find; a large one, where horizons are not easily visible…but the perimeter is still there." He breathed and shifted, linen rustled, barely perceptible to Estel's ears.

"But I find… if you ignore them, the expanse is lush and wide beyond fences and mountains, here it is wide and wider than the sea."

Estel's eyes widened.

"Or I might simply call it restful, which is good. There is nothing anyone could wish for here."

He smiled, a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth.

Estel thought perhaps the sentence sought completion, and its owner was in search of more that the restfulness of Rivendell.

He shook his dark hair from his face where it had fallen.

"Yes, most would say that." Hesitation found him and held him for a moment. It passed.

"But what would you wish for? You say there is nothing but…"

"You see much. And I wish for much." The voice was placid and subtle. It was like a forest, with dark shapes falling out, long and distorted on the floor.

"I hope you do not see this as dissatisfaction."

"I just want more than mortal pleasures."

"But you are immortal. You're an elf."

"My world is mortal. Middle-earth is mortal."

Estel fell silent, he lapsed into it and it swelled about them, like honey, slow and suffocating, sweet with ripened mystery.

"Do not trouble yourself. I am happy, just not complacent."

He turned to look at the other; so much older and yet seemed not so—elves, that was their way; unless, unless one paid attention to the eyes, peerers found more depth than they were willing to scale.

This one's eyes were blue, very blue; the air was a rush of foamy song, rising, glancing the rafters, embers glowed bright as legends were awakened, elves found much time for memory. Estel often found himself caught between the human lust for the present, speed and action—there was not enough time—and also the need to delve deep into the past, his own, those of others before him, and the far removed ghosts that were collectively named predecessors, too many to be singled out—he had been raised amongst elves.

He would have drifted out on a sea of song, all alone if not for the weightless hand that alighted on his shoulder; a presence he felt immediately.

"I think we might both be livelier on this night…have you ever been out to the gardens here, at night, when it is quite deserted, if I may say so? Have you?"

He shook his head in reply, the apparition blazed burgundy—firelight, he reminded himself dazedly, Estel had almost forgotten Legolas' presence, yet he had not noted an absence.

The pair wound through the crowds that thinned as they drew near the exit; the door opened, outside was the corridor: long lean and winding. And beyond that as they stepped under an arch was the night, all-eclipsing, gentle, lulling and wakeful—inky with pinpricks of cloistered diamonds.

The elf glowed slightly as was typical of them. Estel melded cleanly into the night—he had never felt so much a part of such a great magnitude.

He was mortal, this was their gift: they always returned to the earth, voluntarily or no.

The grass was singing in fervent rushes, blades almost bursting with the season's generousity. Beneath their feet the grass grew. _Tread lightly_, Estel told himself. _Why though?_ It was just a fleeting thought: _tread lightly._ And so he did.

"You humans do grow fast; you were a mere child on our last meeting."

Legolas seemed to offer a smile as accompaniment to his words; one Estel felt more than saw; the elf had his back to him.

They traversed the garden path; poppies were alight with dew: pearls in the elf's illumination. Estel wondered if Mirkwood could be as dark as rumour implied: it was inhabited by elves, creatures who seemed solely composed of light and music.

"I do not recall," he replied.

"I doubt that not. You were young. Very young."

"And then I grew up." Estel seemed to grapple with the vowels; there was nothing much he could say.

He hid a smile as he bent over to caress a lily's white face. It was as the dwarves who visited Rivendell not long ago had remarked to him once out of the earshot of the elves: they speak in riddles and then laugh at you; Middle-earth is their plaything.

Doubtless the elves still heard. They had a manner uncanny to those who were unfamiliar with them.

Settling delicately on a stone walled fountain, Legolas began again.

"When I was younger, very much younger, Mirkwood was a brighter place. Like Rivendell, only there were no walls entailing our realm, and the magic was wild in every pool every leaf.

Dol Guldor was not yet the terror it is now."

"When you were a child…?" Estel perched next to him, huddling up against the dark."

"It was a long while ago; before your memory or your father's"

"And the darkness…it is not like this?" Estel gestured vaguely, as the object of his comparison was vague and uncontainable—the night.

"It is…oppressive. Adar has not wavered, but our time has." He tilted his face toward the sky.

Estel clasped his hands in his lap, expression lost in shadow.

"If you would be so generous as to allow me, let me recount better times." He grew dreamy, walking down the paths of dream, oft-tread, they seemed as Estel noticed, Legolas paid less attention to all that was around them.

It was a long rambling tale, no fact, but now mired in myth, clouded by feelings, and the years in between, inflections revealed by tone, glory hindered by the lack of better words.

He spoke of life and truth; he spoke of clarity: ponds and open skies, eyes and lyrics, the lute; he spoke of dependence and independence, a child: golden-locked and bright eyed; he spoke of the fight: brutal, then the crying: sobs, from there was born anger and vengeance; he spoke of weariness; he spoke of surrender: elves fleeing to the sea, and succumbing, whilst others entered the Halls of Mandos; he returned to the present; a sigh.

A sound like running water, like wind and wings, like night; a sound that made Estel feel similarly.

Then he laughed as silence resumed its stiff curtain: an almost high-pitched sound, serenely lush.

"I am afraid I have made us both moody and lacklustre for no reason at all."

"I suppose so." Estel thought for a moment, neither spoke, just breathing, casual, meaningful, amplified by the dark. "I have heard of the spiders in Mirkwood. Are they quite as formidable as reputation assumes they are?"

"Well, actually, yes." They embarked on a conversation revolving around the fearsome eight-legged carnivores of the sweltering dark, Legolas recalled Elladan and Elrohir's similar morbid interest in them.

"Yes, they do enjoy killing orcs and things." Estel agreed.

"They do have their reasons."

"They hide their sadness so well."

"To let it rest is the best consolation."

The lilies pandered to the moon's beams; they grew, they sang, swelling Illuvatar's Song.

The garden was a mercy. Bles't and christened; nameless and therefore free.

Dark shapes conversed late, late into the night.

Night was bereft of time; neither counted the hours.

* * *

The Bruinen flowed on; all paths lead to the sea.

-

A mood is a beautiful thing as Estel first began to discover; how to see beyond a face in colour: incandescent and fair.

-

And the only failings of lilies are that their season be all too short.

Cometh the autumn they wither.

Next spring finds renewal; forgetfulness of the last cycle, they do not remember the face that tended to them.

But the lily is pure so long as it is, and it will continue to be even after men cease to have eyes and eyes cease to see.

Elves know this with their immortal eyes.

-

Elves are not omnipotent.

They learn as well, and they need the passing of days to be shaped by the earth.

This was how the earth was born. It was conceived, and a mind surfaced, it was shattered as it opened its eyes, and it returned, stronger for all the seams holding it together, and memory that collects history so that the mind might make reference and hold it dear in latter days.

-

Estel never knew the entire course of education that flowed through him that night. He knew it many years later: memory.

By then time had worn him down, and built him anew: Aragorn.

* * *

Of last night:

There were epithets of joy and litanies of sorrow and then there were long rambles, flights of fancy and the mellifluous vowels flowed on and on, dimming and lowering as night began to fade and permit dawn; these were treasured—the only possession capable of lasting millennia, and therefore the only thing elves ever lay claim on: memory, unfading even as stone has crumbled and language been unwound to sound and fury.

There will still be memory.

However, wine does tend to loosen memory's grasp of time, and one's perception of the minutes water and run into each other. Morning arrived after twelve hours of dark; for some it had been the stretching of a moment, unsegmented and loose, for others it had been a dream, with no beginning and no end, just unregimented forever glimpsed at once a while.

Estel reflected on this, the reply he had received from numerous individuals concerning that night in the Hall of Fire, so many other occasions celebrated there; all diverging and converging in some way, life was all some kind of history, nothing existed but the present, created through lessons learned and salvaged from the past. How beautiful.

And there are some days that pass by in flashes, bright and full, like a flower so bursting with joy and fruit that it is at the brink of withering and failure and death.

This day was one of them: precision and speed faster than the eye could track.

Archery.

He was not particularly good at this, which was probably why Legolas was so adamant on teaching him.

Archery was a craft Legolas had shown an aptitude for since childhood, it was the woodwind personified, arrows were a decent, unbrutal weapon, soaring without vanity, straight and clean and their wings were gifted to them by the wind that bore them. There was that familiarity of it, gracefully modest; a harp crafted for more practical purposes.

The bow favoured patience over willful aspiration, which was the main reason contributing to Estel's ineptness with it.

Dawn had brought four figures to the archery grounds, Elladan and Elrohir had been reluctant initially to participate in what they deemed an unworthy cause, after all, they were competent as instructors, but eventually agreed. Estel had only been too keen, there was an inextinguishable want to learn in him.

Flight was crooked and it embedded itself firmly into the earth.

Another was strung and set loose.

"Not so fast. Concentrate on the target."

Swift and wayward.

"Here, let me show you. Your stance…" he knelt on the slightly damp earth, and grasped both wrists then replaced them on the bow.

----

Ten arrows. A brightened sky, fully warm, the sun was an inquisitive one as it spied upon the goings-on far, far below its lofty perch.

"Was that better?"

A slight nod followed in response.

----

----

Another arrow accepted the challenge offered by the board, edging closer to the middle, a small red spot.

He was less careless in aiming as the day progressed. The midday heat wedded intense sunshine to the redolence added generously by fresh blooms.

----

----

By nightfall he was thoroughly worn-out, but satisfaction accompanied this ache that was making itself known, satisfaction from more than one individual.

----


	5. Chapter 5

5

The first time

_--You can't keep a place from changing unless you leave it_

_--Will you go_

_--I don't know_

_--I just don't know_

* * *

The day was full and lovely, it had approached as a faint brilliance along the rims of the world, and it had come closer, closer, shining violet from ink, it had been crimson, swelling to eclipse the sky, then faded to a blueness that made clarity clearer.

A horse was burnished in the golden mist—dawn's reminder of her glorious morning. She loomed closer, and was not imposing but familiar: Merin.

The other horses had been milling around the front courtyard where the Mirkwood contingent readied them for the ride home, Legolas stood with the sons of Elrond; it was quiet, the horses snorted, Merin approached to stand by his side, and as he loaded his pack he turned to his friends.

"Well, I suppose it will be quite some time 'til I see you again."

"Perhaps it will be long enough for Rivendell to regain her composure." Elladan hid his smiles well, but no one is quite inscrutable when with friends forged over centuries.

"With you two around; never."

"All and sundry assume it is our fault, but things were very different before he came along," gestured Elrohir to Estel.

"I doubt that," a wayward smile as he turned away to rearrange the various straps.

Estel was oddly silent, in his head he chased a reckless orchestra of thoughts and hours, somehow that philosophical night spent in the garden, away from songs and everyone else had found its way back to him. He leaned forward to stroke the gentle arch of Merin's neck, she was very forthcoming to strangers he noticed.

The day spun lazy circles like the gulls Estel had never known; according to archaic texts run from years unfounded that had slept in the library, gulls were the infinitely minute rift in the elven existence, everything began and ended in the instant it trumpeted its call. Time was like that on certain occasions like this, like the gull, white wings outspread and motionless as it sailed in the sky, circles of quietude. Morning was as such, a white expanse that was numbered by hours and transcient as a result, but no, it crawled now. Only no mud, no dirt would cling. Morning.

"Well, we shall be off now," Legolas swung himself onto his horse in a swift movement Estel could not quite follow, then he was mounted and ready like the other elves. They were so silent.

"Farewell then, and mind you don't fall off your horse," Elrohir was typically sardonic as he bid their friend goodbye; there was laughter like moonlight over misty mountains that mingled with the trees.

Legolas turned, waving and with the rest of the contingent, set off down the road out 

They had both grown up.

And through growing up they knew loss.

Not even a king has everything he wants within an arm's reach; but as his Queen had said, that was the way of things, and the way things should be, if not, what of the Undying lands and ever after?

As usual, she was right.

His queen. His Queen.

He was reminiscing. Mornings were meant for such gentle contemplation. They were so quiet, and mysterious in their unspeaking nature even after countless meetings with middle-earth.

The room smelled of peace and parchment at rest; he enjoyed that, when it was not written on and streaming with words and ink foretelling or recording ill news. Sunlight, mild and glorious in their placid nature dipped in and submerged the floors in diaphanous gold. This was enchantment at its purest. It was an element in itself.

Perhaps it was time to begin the day and regain morning in memories as he retired that night—such was the wonder of being immortal, the knowing that one has forever.

He slid into his chair and reached for his quill, parchment fluttered and awoke sheet by sheet, the room was a flurry of thoughts and he was lost in the milling crowd of trade agreements, reports and the many othtwined with other woodland blooms as his son's fingers lengthened with the seasons he breathed.

But he would never forget the sincerity of dandelions in any form. The pair still favoured them, simple bright burst of spring, uncontainable.

He kept mornings quiet and unhurried when he could, solitary now but still as beautiful in its loneliness. There was once when he woke up to a shape whose presence never left him, not even as he slipped past the circles of this world, and a small bundle he could not, would not forget.

Even when the former had gone, with no hope of return, the latter still came to him, again and again.

His son was too old to come creeping back to his father in the early hours, but no one could ever grow out of memories.

He sighed. Morning solitude. It had not always been so, first they had not been lonely at all, ever; then they became the solitude of mourning, he loathed to recall and yet would not allow himself to forget; soon he had found recourse in another and that other had left him to become a stranger that he still loved, a stranger who loved him in return. In the manner of paternal fondness and in this case maternal as well, he would wonder, sometimes with fondness, other times slight regret at where his son had gone.

They had both grown up.

And through growing up they knew loss.

Not even a king has everything he wants within an arm's reach; but as his Queen had said, that was the way of things, and the way things should be, if not, what of the Undying lands and ever after?

As usual, she was right.

His queen. His Queen.

He was reminiscing. Mornings were meant for such gentle contemplation. They were so quiet, and mysterious in their unspeaking nature even after countless meetings with middle-earth.

The room smelled of peace and parchment at rest; he enjoyed that, when it was not written on and streaming with words and ink foretelling or recording ill news. Sunlight, mild and glorious in their placid nature dipped in and submerged the floors in diaphanous gold. This was enchantment at its purest. It was an element in itself.

Perhaps it was time to begin the day and regain morning in memories as he retired that night—such was the wonder of being immortal, the knowing that one has forever.

He slid into his chair and reached for his quill, parchment fluttered and awoke sheet by sheet, the room was a flurry of thoughts and he was lost in the milling crowd of trade agreements, reports and the many other things that usurp a king's time.

* * *

The moon was so bright in her fury; he wondered upon it, she was as brilliant as the sun, perhaps more in the dark sky; logic fled him as it habitually did when meeting beauty.

Her reflection lay in pieces, fragments of a mirror so supine upon the lake. His reflections lay with her, thoughts fleeting and edged with haze though oddly sharp, he was in a fey mood tonight: the beauty of such a thing: mood: he preferred to leave unsaid.

Elves said little, after living so long one inadvertently learns many lessons, one of them being the futility of idle prattle; it was not that the elves were grim folk, just silent, and ethereal as reams of moonlight settling upon a glade or a forest pool fringed with belladonna.

His horse snorted, the sound velvet and muted in the silence, he stoked the fire and called to her; she pawed her hoof in response.

He rummaged around in his pack and found the object of his searching: an apple.

One of the treasures acquired on midnight sojourn to the kitchens of Rivendell; not for the lack of food given to them but rather the abundance of it. There was a thrill in stealing a number of items from the pantry then spiriting themselves and their hoard back to one of their rooms; one of the habits he Elladan and Elrohir had preserved from childhood days and one that Estel was discovering.

Of course the thieves took more care in ensuring stealth and invisibility: it simply would not do, dignitaries raiding the kitchens. Absolutely unheard of, Legolas smiled to himself at this private remark.

He had stashed a few of these away for Merin; padding over to her he held it out in his hand.

"You spoil her, you do," an amused chuckle that came rustling from the darkness behind him.

"There does not seem to be any harm in it, and she does enjoy her treats," came the admittedly indulgent reply.

"Don't we all," said Menellir as he arched his back slightly, his blankets murmured into their whispered conversation.

"Better get your rest, your watch will be soon." Legolas turned to face his friend, he noticed how queerly the incessant flames threw shadows upon the other's face.

"There is no need to be enthusiastic about that at all; nothing terribly exciting is happening, or is about to," he added as an afterthought.

"Ah, but it might," Menellir showed no intentions of returning to his private sonatas of dream and flight. He joined Legolas where the horses stood, silken angles and exhalation that played a fitting accompaniment to the treesong that was a constant to elves.

The fronds danced beyond the night and in the glow of phantasmagoria: the faint illumination of elves.

Menellir bent over, picking up a branch, he straightened and tossed it carelessly into the fire. It was devoured, and it invariably crumbled to dust and ash.

"Time is of a similar nature."

"So that is your purpose, I had expected fireworks from you."

"No, no. that would be Mithrandir." Menellir continued, "Time is like that; it holds us in thrall, then devours us."

"Rewards us with naught but dust and ash," Legolas hesitated, "and bone."

Menellir was silent, he inclined his head.

"I suppose this will be that age, even immortality fades."

Nightly philosophy came easily to creatures who were given leave to ponder.

Gloom did not suit Menellir well. "There are other ways in which things can get dusty, if they remain static for too long. Say you, as you are now."

"I think not! What cause had you to make such a grievous remark?"

"It is unusual to see you quieted at length. It was beginning to unnerve me."

"Still, it is the truth. You know it as well as I do. This visit has been a short reprieve, and Rivendell, in all honesty is an illusion maintained by her Lord."

"But so long as we can, nothing should stopper joy."

The night passed and the hours for another's watch melded into theirs, but they stayed by the edges of firelight and spoke of matters that did not breach light and dark's fight.

* * *

He passed his seventeenth birthday with the usual splendour his brothers assumed was suitable for a Mannish countdown of the years: Elladan and Elrohir had previously explained the festivities Rivendell enjoyed on his birth date were to make up for the valley's general placidity; most of the elves had reached their maturity years before and thus annual celebrations were tedious—to the elves years ran like water. He realized the truth the yarn they spun hid: his years were limited—precious and running to a great sea of the past from a river that would soon run dry in but a wink of the ages.

However, not much bothers one when he is seventeen, the years in which each dawn found renewal; he crossed that border, moving further away from childhood on the balcony that leaned out of the confines of a room as beautiful and familiar as he would ever find, under nothing at all, for the sky has not the limits of brick and stone. And as he was carried over the threshold, this he knew because of the affinity he had for time and hours, he recounted the stars and with each he recounted a memory.

_The Bruinen was bright with morning, he waded through the reeds and clarity that clung to his knees—how old had he been, he remembered being a child, too young to know the gift of innocence he had, the knowing comes afterward, when you have lost it—he squealed as he slipped and floundered for a minute, the stones at the bottom were pale and scattered smooth, limpid with the shining of water and he could see or couldn't he? The world was distorted; and before he could properly begin to choke or sputter he felt hands, this was someone strong who, he knew these hands and who—_

_Gold, illuminated with mild sunshine,_

"_Estel," a voice spoke, this was Glorfindel and Glorfindel who decided that he had had enough excitement as he coughed up a little water. They returned to the house._

_-_

_Linden trees, the grove was free and redolent, gold dust—hazes and small butterflies; this was Rivendell in full bloom, this is Rivendell in full bloom, this is beauty—he had wandered alone, Rivendell was nestled in a valley that rose high around her and was a sanctuary, he was as restful as the trees, they sang in this season according to Elladan, Lindir had described their voices as soaring and had not presumed to say more. As one of the race of men, he had never heard treesong; he tried to listen, their branches rustled and the vespers ran through their fingers, but nothing more, the wood remained mysterious and closed to him._

_He hushed his footsteps and slowed his breathing, his fingers reached out to stroke the bark, trills under his fingers, notes of a delicate pulse—was this what the trees sounded like?_

_He quieted his thoughts, it was strange, this lull in recollection an endless stream that ran encroaching on the past yet rushing up to the present._

_Their whispers touched him, and murmur murmur they were like that he knew then, they murmured and rustled._

_Perhaps he couldn't quite hear them but he knew them, a little, he knew them as they were, and as they swelled_

_It marked an epoch; he knew it as he left the grove he knew it was not invention but the learning of a language that always was, voices that had been lost and mired in the ears of one not born to the right but had gained it. He knew secrets; this was one that really mattered: the very gentle secret of time, spirit of secrets, he wasn't sure how to frame it in prose; it was unimportant, to keep secrets all one has to do is understand. He felt like he understood the trees._

_-_

_Muslin like surf white muslin and their ruffles rustled hitting the windowsill sweep sweep the wooden windowsill and the window panes flung outward and the whole room seemed to leaned outward into the open and he felt like he was going to be swept away as the muslin kept fluttering over sunshine that cam in odd parallelograms of light like yellow more like gold. And someone else's gold by him spotless sunshine and it shone alternately it was shadowed and it flickered placidly like the pebbled beds of the Bruinen soft rises and falls of light he had seen as he played there. So this Other was standing by him and he spoke he said—what did he say he said immortality—yes that's what he said and he said is not truly a blessing—yes; and he continued: unless coupled with youth of the mind heart and senses is nothing nothing much. And he continued the Other spoke again mortality is not such a poor counterpart the capacity for surrender is the gift of men elves could never never—what was it he said, what._

_Yes, perhaps…yes… he said this as gold lapped over his shoulder: I see your confusion; but yes the elves are a blessed race, he laughed he had laughter like like the vespers of wind rustling the willows on a sunlight-tremulous day or maybe a night or maybe an evening with the light in pieces and falling falling fast over dipped down a horizon and gone._

_He had fingers long and slender reached out to pick up a wayward bloom blown onto the windowsill by the wind and he breathed or was it a sigh he must be very tired or old elves are old too old to recount and you cant know by looking at them and the Other leaned out precariously so very precarious but it did not look dangerous just him and this innate balance maybe and the Other lifted and blew and the pinkblushedspringfedsunshinebred fluttered. And it flew and it did not seem to land._

_Where did it go?_

_-_

Estel broke from reverie and the images unfiltered and vivid were ascatter; he saw the first traces of dawn, her rosy fingers drew interception between night and day

_Pinkblushedspringfedsunshinebred_

It reminded him of that flower; a little flower that had a name so small and hidden it eluded him; he wondered if he had just imagined it all: the fantasy that was otherworldly and nameless.

* * *

_Time goes by like river; winking merry and fey as it winds winds down the dips and hollows and into the forest, approaching the heart of mystery._

She had been a poet, thoughts ran from her incessantly, snowy white sentences found composition and recomposition; he missed that, they filled the room with purpose.

He missed it despite its everconstant presence; it still breathed it still was it still persisted, but it was unlike her daemon. No two poets are the same, just like no two elves are the same though they might find descent from the same forest, though one birthed the other.

Legolas was reminiscent of his mother in certain aspects, Thranduil's musings flowered, unwinding from tightlyfolded buds and falling off as another followed, they were a constant stream, trickling off into the element of history. Or rather, he carried a hint of his mother with him; Thranduil could never quite decipher what it was exactly that drew her to him—_she was faintly unreal and as she drew closer, she muffled the distraction of the day and yet heightened his senses, day found its way back to him—_but he knew her, he _knew_ her, that was knowledge, and it ran in an endless stream from the depths of a spirit that belonged to him and yet ran untethered, free and unbounded by the known and unknown.

Night paved arbours of shadow along the paths that snaked out into the forest.

Out into the heart of mystery: tanglewood and flesh eternal, it whispered to him.

He spoke, returnal, always the same reply.

-

Waking had been a quiet process that morn, it crept upon him, slow and hushed footsteps, and before he was aware, he had awoken, rocked gently from dream.

Hours were passed as parchment and quill toiled seamlessly sliding in curls and loops: elvish.

He tossed a glance out of the window, and he saw horses approaching, riders, and a golden head he had known well; once he had to incline his head to see the nodding dandelion that clung to him, waist high, now he saw the face bloomedover in youth unending—he felt pride then and now, it had never changed.

He knew that head well—Legolas. He had restrain himself from bounding out to greet him: it was most unbecoming of a monarch.

* * *

So, how was that?

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	6. Chapter 6

6

The moon's tedium wore upon him. He saw white buildings rising above the churning dusk: Gondor. Someday the land would find redemption, someday the valleys would be exalted from their current unrest, the darkness would be chased from its tower of secrets and magic, no more the cells of Sauron's proliferation.

That was his dream, and the dream of all the other peoples of Middlearth.

Denethor waited, he would find a way; for now he watched the sullenness of night swelter.

* * *

There is a valley that dips and transcends in its sinuous curve to another dimension where moments are not separate—they run together and the song of the trees is evident in every ear bestowed upon the plain by a thousand years of reverie. 

It does not flourish but remains as it had for centuries uncountable; no dates are found here and the minutes are free and easy.

The mallorns rise beyond the darkness that is pervasive and grotesque—it fails to twist the silver boles into phantasm and wreckage. Only it is a sad place, peaceful joy makes it home here but wisdom makes the land sad—here is the only beautiful shipwreck which has marooned itself in memory.

Galadriel knows. These golden hazes which are not intrinsic in this forest will decay as Mordor grows beyond its stronghold and ravages the world.

Things will change. Galadriel knows.

* * *

The image of Luthien resides here; she no longer dances, her gravity is as her father's. 

She was born to bear the brunt of a failing world.

Do her foremothers regret?

Morning is fading, midday vanished with the end of the beginning, night will ride to its precipice, shine brighter than any dusk, then fall. Fall.

No fireworks will blaze, just the silence.

* * *

Music was alive under the eaves of a very different wood; the lute's singing mingled with arpeggios of another kind—an old tune for which the trees would disown all other sound: laughter. 

They mingled and lapsed and rose together, they coincided and ran quick: in the smallest instant were born notes like imagination.

Celebrations of the New Year by the elvish calendar. Merry sentiments ran riotous and the leaping flames banished ghouls from the undergrowth.

There was a festive intimacy in the air—rare in large congregations but it was present. Thranduil found the spirit of elves as admirable as he had always thought it was, they found light and magnified it, and souls that were inimitable, unfathomable but with the power to light up the night. There was something gorgeous about it all, he would never leave it.

Bright shapes danced, faces were unforgettable and changing as they moved amongst the groups, laughter was prodigal, faces and silhouettes, some more familiar than others to the king's eye. He searched the crowds for something dear to him: his son sat in a corner with Menellir, their conversation was more reserved rather than boisterous: no sweeping arms punctuated sentences, Thranduil watched his son rest his chin on his hand, elbow propped on a knee, he liked to watch the mundane closeness of his life; days were often too hurried.

A voice called to him, he turned his attentions to a rather engaging conversation, again concerning only mundane things. But he liked these things, he liked the nuances life was enmeshed in; there was a simplicity in it all that was too endearing to pass by.

---

They were both swept from idyllic conversation into a vague swirl of gold and chatter: the clearing was full and yet airy with dancing.

She said something as they twirled, it was lost in the

cheerful quagmires of dialogue, he leaned closer—

"I said: odd that you two are so quiet on an evening like this." She smiled at him, her voice carried hints of amusement.

"Well, not anymore," he answered as he spied Menellir's receding form.

"You ought to make the most of occasions like this."

"Oh, but I have better things to do." His reply was flippant, mirroring hers' well.

She laughed, like bells; he felt the gentle tinkles down her backbone.

"Is the rest of the year so boring that everything that happens tonight must be laughed at?" Legolas was casually conscious of their immediate environs, for now the dance belonged to them only—this is the way every couple should feel. Two pairs of feet stepped light and sprightly, perfectly in step with the music.

Elestir cocked her head, "No, it is just you that I find funny. In any case what is worth laughing at should be received as such—there aren't enough laughs to go around in this world."

She was an eternal optimist and would have plenty of time to demonstrate to the world this rare value as she was showing him.

* * *

_This is rather short but I just wanted to demonstrate life and its plain eventfulness. Not everything is significant and I wanted to give a decent portrayal of the years also I wanted to show that it isn't just Imladris and Mirkwood that are dynamic, changing places. Additionally, one of the vignettes give Arwen gravity._

_Review replies will be on the homepage._

**_ok, this is important. i was planning on revamping the thing, paring it down as nobody seems to like it except for two readers whom might be three things: sympathetic, similar to myself, or, my favourite--geniuses like me (joke!). _**

**_however, it's taking too long, so LegolassQ and Qwe and hopefully Moonyasha (this is for you too if you're still out there) can have this one first and subsequent chapters while i replace the rest slowly, or rather--as fast as i can._**

**_this is just for you guys!_**

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	7. Chapter 7

7

Leaves falling with the vigour of snow and though dry they swept the wooded floor with the nearly deadened hush that comes only with a resigned heart. In the deep mists of exhaling branches came a figure, weary, and another with a sense of the depraved about it.

The tangled breaths of Mirkwood distilled sunlight as it fell, and it landed, light, dilapidated, and sacred on the floor: tremulous and almost fearful. Shadows leaned forth, the goldenrod spirits filling the space between shivered and shrank. The phantasms wended their way forth through the amorphous trees—the same sleepy watchers that echoed a holocaust. Shudders resounded.

One was taller, hardy and something unmistakably noble clung to the silhouette, the other crouched; decrepit and bitter, rancorous mutterings. It tried to pull away and the taller figure grasped it sharply: a wounded cry. The sound of something with a heart poached and gone. They drew closer.

The rustles made were barely perceptible but the man cast an upward glance at where the scout had been moments before; he credited the movement to a bird and moved on. He followed the path as it dipped into a grove, shrubbery that had become wild and untamed with the years of rampant growth, it embodied the very shadows it captured within its gnarled fingers, intertwined, wood, once good and uncorrupted—it lay there as a tragic remnant: wood and blackness kissing and inseparable.

The man's ragged cloak, worn and rugged as he himself surged into the grove, twisting as the winds tore at it—pulling pulling—he was gone.

The scout took note and dived from his perch to a branch below and then from this tree to the next, the wood pliant and willing beneath him.

The wood was left as quiet as it had ever been, ever.

* * *

He had only been twenty, a mere stripling according to the elven calendar—according to that of his own race he was a man, due to begin life on his own.

Where did he truly stand?

Lothlorien confused him, the golden mist held him wrapt and surely he was as a leaf on the waves, turbulent stormy and intemperant, dream met life here, both entities transcending the ghastly gates of ivory that were usually fastened, firm and definite. Here there were no such borders. Dream and life wandered freely; and in this prison phantasmagoria wandered, met him, cornered him and were cruel, a caress and a whisper: all murmurous dialogue, then they left and he, heady with agony and bliss all the same.

Not Estel—Aragorn.

The name was harder, harsher. More like that of Men. Less like the Elves. It was only when he encountered both that he realized the startling difference between them, hounds, two worlds each fraught with their own menaces like hounds, they chased him, up the precipice and held him there.

He waited for the blow to fall. And it did. He knew what path he must take.

Events past and gone, swept by time, condemned to live only in history: all were resurrected on that day in spring; Lord Elrond released the hell he kept from him. Rivendell was no longer quite the shelter it was constructed to be. No ramparts of stone can ever protect you from the truth and the conscience that follows it wherever it may choose to go.

Why?

He leaned by a mallorn, willful but with grace, and thought. And thought.

---

She bowed her head and listened as the gales descended in their parabola, rustling the trees, these beings who whispered and shivered intermittently: the muse was amongst them now—muse of many things, of all the things she embodied, tragedy was one. She made it so unbearably beautiful.

And the golden mist transmuted the forest to a heady brilliance, incited by fitful sunshine; the moment lulled on a contemplative note, and was broken. She heard footsteps. Not an elf but quieter than a human's.

It drew near, faintly stirring fallen leaves from their rest. She did not hide, it was no menace.

He emerged and looked up.

---

She was the purest of new climate, pleasant and more temperate than the summer though radiant as all summers should be.

Dark haired and dark eyed, he registered these little details and found little less to say. it seemed unworthy for him to record, in verse or in prose, the sublimely transcient immortality she exemplified.

Aragorn bowed deeply; he did not know her name.

"Aragorn, son of Arathorn." He spoke, he could not lie to her, he could no longer use the name of the only father he had ever known.

---

He was earthly and yet unearthly. Arwen found thoughts fleeting as they ran along faster than they could be acknowledged.

She spoke and he listened.

---

To look upon her was to drink from a forest pool—which forest pool, he recognized one, this surrounded by the darkly amorphous trees, isolated in a glade, he had known it before—and drink again and again.

Aragorn drank—he knew it could not last._ It could not last._

* * *

Gollum had been most disagreeable that day, he seemed to know the forest they were encroaching on was the domain of the elves. And despite the darkness of the wood, Aragorn recognized a distinctly elvish air. They brought more light than the sun.

Not that Gollum had ever been well-behaved and acquiescent, he kicked and scratched his keeper and tore ravenously at the fish Aragorn had been generous enough to catch for him.

He still did not know why he humoured the creature. Perhaps in its terrible dilapidation it inspired pity from others. Aragorn preferred not to dwell on these questions and instead did what was required of him. He took Gollum to Mirkwood.

The strange pair had journeyed far; Aragorn's stealth had whisked them over leagues with little trace of their trespass over unfriendly lands, and they arrived unheralded in the bleak wood.

The action itself was ironic: he would not enjoy his stay in Mirkwood, strange that his only opportunity to see the forest—an idea of legendary proportion, ripening seed planted there many years ago by a friend—came under hostile circumstances. He was there for duty's sake, he expected nothing but to have the wretch off his hands.

His impression of Mirkwood was smoky but uncorrupted by any tales he might have heard, he knew that under the eaves of the wood came exhalation, the rise and fall of old songs—trees. But he had not known the thickness of the foliage and the sparseness of the elves.

He was a stranger. Sunlight seemed to cower here, and he was perhaps more than a little regretful of his predestined path: away from Arwen and in an untamed land of strangling vines. Lothlorien's beauty was pale and benign, witchlike but softly brilliant. Here there was nothing, a void that rested upon leaf upon leaf upon leaf.

His heart pulsed and its old chant assumed itself: _I am I am I am—_what was he, how unanswerable that question was. Interspersed in the pauses of his monologue came the whimpering of Gollum, a distorted, altered creature. It would never see the light of day the same way again, it would never be restored to 'he', Gollum would always be an 'it'.

The trees rustled, Gollum cowered: he feared much, but in his erratic moods, he would often assert himself as a being beyond redemption, so much so that it has nothing more to lose.

A bough was rumpled somewhere over his head, the ranger peered upward: nothing, it was probably a bird, rare in the poisoned outskirts of the jungle.

Following the murky trail Aragorn dragged Gollum with him and resisted being lured back into contemplation: Mirkwood was not a place where one could let one's guard down, he would not fail.

"Hush, you." Gollum snarled in response but no more was heard: they were gone, hidden by tangled undergrowth.

* * *

Mirkwood's elves were cloistered deep in the woods, even the archaic stone of their fortress whispered, veiny with knowledge—familiar with the elves.

The corridors were winding and led underground even, still, a wind blew and it was as the breezes that found their way below ground: pervaded with the enchanted rusticity of the elves, it was an odd feeling, the feeling of age and youth all at once.

Gollum drew close to him and clamoured for mercy, he found the elves a threat apparently and his whimpers became more and more prevalent in the unearthly silence of Thranduil's halls. Aragorn was uncertain whether to extend sympathies or feel great joy, the taunting little shadow that had haunted his steps was now chased by his own fears—as a boy he had always loved and pitied things smaller than he, was this a change others underwent as they walked the lonely passage to adulthood, or was this alteration due to the rugged life of the ranger's?

He wandered the halls with his guide and probed deep: no, he still retained his love of the good—his love for Arwen persisted. He could see her face, almost, if only it were not punctuated by these incessant footfalls, if only these screams would leave… no no, they would not go, they came from his dogged ghost.

Gollum bore a mutinous look in his eyes, this and more Aragorn perceived as the scraggly hand tugged at his cloak, causing him to peer downward.

It hissed. "Leave this place. Leave, now!"

"No," the answer was a resolute one, the creature writhed in agony.

"He is a peculiar one." The elf turned and paid Gollum the attention he had been trying to evade for the first time. The look was mildly distasteful, perhaps a hint of curiousity was visible as well, but Gollum shrunk back from the elven gaze and was hushed.

And so they continued their sojourn through the labyrinth of carven stone and the winding vines, boughs and leaves blossoming from it.

The unlikely trio stopped by an almost imposing set of doors, they were shut but in their quietly communicative way promised truth and revelation.

"The king." It was not strictly a proclaimation, it lacked the pompadour commonly found and expected with royalty, but the tone was reverent, Aragorn could see this much.

The doors swung open, Aragorn held his breath.

---

The king leaned forward, scrutinizing Gollum, then shifted his gaze to the wretch's keeper.

"So you are Aragorn. Heir of Ilsidur." The tone was calm and wavered between neutrality and slight, very slight inquiry, it gave nothing away, still Aragorn wondered: had those eyes hardened, had those words meant more than what had just been stated?

A nod was returned to the king. Acknowledgement.

"Your errand was to bring him here—for what reasons, may I ask?"

So this was Legolas' father, seen through his eyes as a king. He was not harsh or even cordial…he simply was, it was an odd sensation, standing here, facing a being with an undeniable resemblance to his old friend and at the same time ridding itself of any connotations of warmth. And then again, no. Thranduil was not cold. He was indescribable, tranquil and stern, he wondered if he aspired to be this kind of king, mysterious to strangers and loved by his own people. _If you ever ascend the throne, if you ever win your queen._ He sighed inwardly.

Mithrandir sent me. He asks a favour of you: keep Gollum, somewhere secure where he will not wander away and into the hands of the enemy, it is imperative that this is done.

"Why so?" speech drifted lazily between the state of conception and birth. Aragorn had not been instructed to say much more.

"So this is Gollum," Thranduil resumed conversation, "it was he who found the ring."

Another nod.

A change of mood seemed to come around. Thranduil appeared almost amused, "So Mithrandir has not forgotten Mirkwood's expertise in holding diminutive ones prisoner."

"It is a hard thing to forget. Gandalf had quite an adventure that time." Aragorn nudged Gollum out from where he hid within the folds of the former's cloak. "Will you keep him?"

"He will not cause too much havoc, or will he?" Thranduil looked disdainfully at Gollum who had resumed his hissing and sobbing.

"It is unlikely. He is savage and bites and scratches but will not do much more."

"Fine. He shall stay." Thranduil waved a number of guards forth, "Take him to the dungeons." Aragorn was certain he had seen a wry smile. The guards did as told, snickering softly; apparently the elves had not forgotten that incident either and had instead turned into a public joke.

The pair waited for Gollum's guttural cries to cease in the distance as the elves grasped his slimy limbs and escorted him down to the wind cellars.

"And you," Thranduil returned his attentions to the ranger. "Your journey would have left you tired. Stay a few days." He waved another elf forth, this one Aragorn had not noticed until now, and as the elf stepped out from the relative gloom of the recesses of the room his features resolved themselves into something recognizable: Legolas.

-

It was a peculiar kind of reunion; quick and thoughtless when it occurred but it returned again and again many years later; this echolalia of the wood.

_--do you remember when that happened?_

_It was bitten with desperation only chilly with restraint_

_--yes, yes I do_

_--then I..._

_he reached over—there was the rustle of velvet, the environs spoke in a muffle—blonde hair cloth quick faster faster push and heat of thoughts all coming together and it was very quick and there was protest and voices murmurous_

_-_

"You have grown up, Estel—perhaps even a little too soon." The voice was merry and just as Aragorn had remembered it.

"My name is Aragorn now."

Legolas cast him glance and there was something in it which was inimitable—both in words and actions. He clasped the ranger's hand as they left the throne room, and the hand, slender and warm stayed there for a long time as they wound their way down corridors, some more populous than others, they walked and Aragorn felt the air change, moods were cast and undone like spells and neither said a word. There are situations in which dialogue is redundant, that was one of them.

They arrived by a tall darkly oaken door. It swung open with a light push. "Your room."

The ceiling vaulted in a graceful arc and the air was still, hushed, it was a fully amber room in the gentle sunlight that came in through the window, shot through with accents of green and goldenrod, landing in a square of gold on the wood floor.

Legolas crossed the room and flung open the window panes, "I prefer leaving the windows open. Shut them when you are absent—you have not forgotten the little horrors of the wood I told you about, or have you?" he smiled. Aragorn joined him by the window as the curtains billowed in and out, they swirled, filmy like haze and the wind blew its ever-changing repertoire through the trees.

"Elladan and Elrohir used to tell me tales about your woodland spiders too."

"They seldom brave populated areas—still, it would do to be careful." He turned away from the window and tapped lightly on another door Aragorn had not yet noticed, "the bathroom, I'll not bother explaining the mechanics of it—this pump," he continued with a finger briefly fluttering down to land on a faucet, "draws water from an underground spring. You push downwards." The hand exerted a little force—water like silver lilies falling and falling as they blossomed in momentary fullness.

* * *

Gollum pandered to the slow, tenebrous darkness found in the corner of his rather generous cell—but still a cell. It was inescapable, this prison of his mind and the ring shone bright bright. The precious the precious, its image was not dulled by the haze of time and distance. Ardour burned fiercely in the little throbbing heart—it was remarkable that he still had a heart, that it was not yet possessed by the precious.

And the lunar calendar seemed to have spun out of control, beyond regulation and normalcy, the anomaly of many suns and moons visiting him, revisiting him, the soft voices—gentle and easy like song—he could not appreciate such frustrations!

Where was Sméagol? Someone watched Gollum—was it Sméagol, it was short like him, plumper and bathed in the oddest rosy glow—dreams/ he would not, could no longer dream.

The eyes watched, sad sorrowful eyes from a sad sorrowful face. Did the figure—the little, what was its name?—want the precious?

"No, no! Precious is mine! Mine!"

Gollum's consciousness imploded into broken sobs, the elves found so much pity for him and yet so much disgust. Hate.

But no one should hate. No one at all.

* * *

To **LegolassQ**—regarding your review for 'The immortal learns', as of now, I plan to make TIL another, more accessible version of 'Once Ever', it's not really a new story at all. Thus, from chapter 6 onwards, these two stories will be carbon copies. However, I might choose to make it a different story with a separate plotline. Still, that's all undecided, but, I'm glad you liked it. Same goes to all the other reviewers of TIL—thanks.

**Yavieriel Tarandir**thanks for reviewing. I find it very uplifting.

Okay, chapter 8 might be delayed—exams comin' soon. So yeah, thanks, bye.


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